


Like Ice

by sharkle



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-16
Updated: 2010-09-16
Packaged: 2017-10-11 21:47:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkle/pseuds/sharkle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All that glitters is not gold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Ice

Your heart is a stone prison. You have trapped yourself inside for all of your life, never letting anyone in but never letting yourself out, either. In your isolation you sit tall and proud and peek out through cracks and crevices, slowly becoming more bitterly cold than the iron chains that bind you to the marble walls of your jail, turning away every visitor, even the one who holds the key to your freedom.

The key-bearer approaches with his chin high and his back straight, regal in his expensive robes and a crown upon his well-kept hair. He calls for you, but you can pretend, within the confines of yourself, that you are alone – thus, he receives no answer and leaves. He walks away. And you are sure that he will not come back; that he won't try and he'll give up, exactly like all the others.

Yet he returns. He returns and waits outside, careful not to push the boundaries as he idly tosses the key back and forth, sometimes so fast it is nothing more than a golden blur between his hands. You know deep down that he will grow tired of waiting, of giving and giving all he has and receiving nothing, even as some part of you hopes more than hope itself that he will see the real you in the fractured wall, and that he will release you and the two of you will ride off into the sunset, a perfect, pure-blooded fairytale.

But his feet become weary: He settles himself down onto a bed of nails, wincing – and all he does is grit his teeth and persevere, through rain and hail and snow and hot-as-hell – yet he's still waiting, still twirling that key around carelessly, as though it's merely an empty promise instead of all of your secrets, something that is so easily shattered and so difficult to clean up with the shards lodged in your throat.

Finally, after far too long, his patience has worn thin. For years you've watched him pace out of the corners of your eyes, his crown glittering in the sun. With something like horror – or maybe fear – you press yourself against the wall, looking for a way out, though you know it's futile. You should have known that once you locked yourself in, there would be only one way out: Through someone else.

Although he's glowering at you and his eyes are narrowed, you think maybe you see a hint of joy in his features as well. He sweeps into the room with grace, his gaze catching yours: In turn, your breath catches. He moves toward you slowly, like a predator stalking his prey, until he grasps your hand in his slightly larger one, deliberate in keeping his eyes on yours. Transfixed by surprise, you let him lead you out.

Before you realize what's happening, a crown identical to his is being lowered onto your head.

"Queen Narcissa," he whispers into your ear, a shiver of ice in the air, and it trails down your shoulders and comes to make you just that much colder.

"King Lucius," you return, the words more biting than his could ever be, and you can almost swear he freezes solid.

More years pass, both of you still ignorant of what you're getting into. You fight and he leaves and you cry and he comes back and you cry again and he leaves again – and although he always comes back, he always comes back ("For Draco," hisses a nasty voice that lingers in the blackest of shadows), you're still a prisoner, and this time, no one can rescue you.

One day, you finally step down from your pedestal to come to a level of someone much greater than you. You remove your crown so your long hair can hide your faces as you check for more heartbeats than just his, and you can't help but examine it. It is no longer solid gold: It was merely paint, and now it's chipped and peeling, the silver dented and scratched. The once blinding glimmer has faded. It needs fixing.

You realize that the crown is you – covered with lies that were only an attempt to conceal all the bad underneath, but now it is too late. It is too late to salvage who you could have been if you had lived to your full potential, but now you are left with pieces of you missing, in need of repair.

The crown topples to the forest floor as you rise, lost in the dirt and bugs. Shoulders back, you turn to face the shade who has ruined your life, and a fleeting thought crosses your mind: All that glitters is not gold. This man is not as amazing as he claimed to be. You announce that you've won, and shouts follow; Lucius' gaze finds yours, and you aren't entirely sure if you're lying.

When it's all over and you're free, really free, you remember the fake crowns you used to wear and how you pretended to be royalty, and even more clearly you remember how it was all a lie, a game, an act, to cover up the real you; a lie that turned you to ice, and became a truth, in some way, that won't leave you alone. But Draco is safe and Lucius is safe and you are safe, and no matter how cold you are, nothing is going to change that. You've made it through the storm.

And yet, you can see Lucius take the key from his pocket and study it. It's so freezing it burns in his hand, and now it's rusted and crumbling, all traces of gold gone, beaten, worn silver all that's left. He tilts his head a little to one side, and you know that he, like you, doesn't know whether to smile, or to frown.

Because really, all that glitters is not gold.


End file.
